


Qu'il Luise ou Qu'il Luiserne

by Sornettes (CatchingTomorrow)



Series: Le meilleur temps de notre vie [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatchingTomorrow/pseuds/Sornettes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire prides himself on being good with words. He may not be a poet like Jehan or a philosopher like Combeferre, but he can talk circles around most people and has a quick response or sharp comment loaded and ready to fire approximately ninety-eight percent of the time. He has a vocabulary wider than most teachers', could go head to head with the Sphinx in a riddle contest and tells one hell of a good story. But if you asked him how he managed to end up like this, lying flat on his dormitory's dusty carpet (and he has always so hated that ugly geometric pattern) with his hands up Éponine's shirt and her tongue down his throat, it would be a safe bet that his beloved words would fail him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is sort of a continuation of Falling Together. Meaning that I wrote it and then couldn't leave that universe well enough alone. You can go and read that to get a bit of background if you like (it's not very long) or you can just read this - it's not so much a sequel as it is an extension, if that makes any sense. But I'll shut up now.
> 
> The title comes from a quote inside the book. It's really old French (as in most modern French people won't understand it) but it basically means 'whether the sun is bright or dim'.
> 
> This first chapter is kind of depressing. But it's not all like this, I promise!

Grantaire prides himself on being good with words. He may not be a poet like Jehan or a philosopher like Combeferre, but he can talk circles around most people and has a quick response or sharp comment loaded and ready to fire approximately ninety-eight percent of the time. He has a vocabulary wider than most teachers', could go head to head with the Sphinx in a riddle contest and tells one hell of a good story.

But if you asked him how he managed to end up like this, lying flat on his dormitory's dusty carpet (and he has always so hated that ugly geometric pattern) with his hands up Éponine's shirt and her tongue down his throat, it would be a safe bet that his beloved words would fail him and he would be left wading through a mind even more fogged than usual to try to dredge up memories of her showing up at his door in tears about something to do with Marius Pontmercy and his new girlfriend, of the two of them drinking their way through half of the stash he keeps hidden under his bed, and then somewhere around the fourth bottle of wine (or was it the fifth?) the cold glass against his mouth is replaced by her lips and they're toppling backwards onto that dreadful carpet.

It's not bad as far as kisses go. It's a bit sloppy and there's altogether too much tongue and not enough technique, but Éponine is balling her fists in his hair like she needs this and he's happy to go along with it if it makes her feel better. Consequences stop being important after the second bottle anyway. So he lets her fumble with his shirt, trying to undo the buttons with her eyes closed, and wonders how her imaginary Marius looks underneath it. It occurs to him that maybe he should be bothered that she's only using him to fill a void inside herself, but wouldn't that be just a touch hypocritical? All that matters to him is that if he fades away and ceases to exist in this moment then at least one person would care.

It's his fault for not taking some initiative sooner. If he'd stopped letting her pin him to the ground and flipped her over only seconds before, he would've seen the door handle turning. He might even have had enough time to jump off her and assume a casual everyday no-I-was-not-just-making-out-with-that-girl-I-don't-know-why-she's-lying-there-like-that position before the door opened. It's debatable, considering what two (possibly two and a half) bottles of red wine can do to his reflexes and coordination, but still. It would've been worth a try.

Instead, all he sees when he finally rolls on top of her is a Greek god in all his majesty, standing silhouetted in the doorway with a takeout café latté in one hand, a political science textbook in the other and an expression on his face that completely throws off Grantaire's equilibrium and sends him rolling all the way back off the other side again to collapse in a heap next to her. He scrambles into an upright position against the bed as Éponine pushes herself up of the floor and sways slightly where she sits.

"What the hell are you doing?" demands the god, who also happens to be Grantaire's roommate.

"Nothing," he says, at the same time as Éponine snaps, "What does it look like?"

Enjolras stands for a moment as though he's going to say something else, then storms inside and hurls his textbook onto his bed so hard it bounces and lands with the pages open and crumped underneath it. He barely seems to notice. "I can't believe you. I actually cannot believe you. I leave the building for one afternoon and come back to you... _fornicating_ all over the floor?" He spins around to glare at them with fire in his eyes and almost spills his coffee. But it's Grantaire and only Grantaire he's speaking to. "You're disgusting."

"Calm down, for Christ's sake," spits Éponine. "We were just snogging. You should try sharing a dorm with Musichetta."

"I don't care what Musichetta does! Last time I checked you were busy pining after Marius and _your_ only love came out of a bottle!"

"So?" she shrieks, and her cheeks aren't just red from the alcohol now. "Since when do you care so much about our love lives?"

"I've never cared!" he shouts right back at her. "I just shouldn't have to come back to find you two rolling all over each other in the room I have to live in!"

"Fine!" She grabs the bedframe in a white-knuckled grip to balance herself as she climbs to her feet. "I'll stop contaminating it then, if it bothers you so much." Either anger is steadying her or she's determined not to give away weakness, because she barely stumbles at all as she marches out of the door and disappears away down the corridor.

Enjolras's gaze turns to Grantaire. "Well?"

He stares at the carpet. "Well what?"

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I don't have to say anything to you."

"Typical." Grantaire does look up now and _shit_ , he wishes he hadn't, because as terrible as he's feeling right now he's never immune to the sight of Enjolras all fired up. His eyes are blazing, his mouth is set in that hard line that appears whenever someone argues a stance he strongly disagrees with, and he must've run his fingers through his hair since he last looked at him because his blond curls are all out of sorts. Grantaire's stomach swoops in that way that's sickening enough when he's sober, but his roommate's perennially undeniable perfection isn't enough to distract him from his next words. "I should've expected this of you. You really don't have any self-respect, do you? You spend your whole life coasting along without even trying to make something of yourself, wilfully drowning in alcohol and now apparently sleeping around with random girls as well."

"I wasn't sleeping with her!" he protests, because he wasn't, Enjolras walked in before they could get to that stage. "You're overreacting. And she's not random, she's Éponine."

"Are you in love with her?"

He is, for once in his life, speechless. Enjolras crosses his arms and waits, as though he actually cares to hear the answer. Grantaire shakes his head. "Of course not."

"Then I rest my case." He makes a disgusted noise, drains the last of his coffee and throws it into the bin with a little more force than necessary. "I don't know why I even try with you. You're useless. I'm going to the library to study; try not to kill yourself while I'm gone."

The door slams behind him. Grantaire stares at it for a long moment, mouth half-open as though about to shoot off a retort to the empty room, but then something inside him seems to burst and he deflates against the bedframe like a life raft that can't even save itself.

He knows Enjolras has a reason for everything he says and he'd be lying if he said he didn't agree with him. He's long ago given up on the idea that he might ever actually be worth something. Enjolras is light and hope and blazing ferocity; he's going to go on to change the world, there's no doubt to be had about that. And Grantaire? He'll be the one passed out in the gutter half-dead from wine and self pity. He does this to himself on purpose. No-one's holding him down and ruining his life for him; he's wilfully tripping down a spiral descent to God-knows-where.

The worst part is, he _loves_ him. He loves Enjolras so much he feels it as a physical ache. He lives for the meetings in the back room of the Café Musain when he can sit with a bottle in one hand and his chin in the other and watch him burn so terribly beautiful, listen to every syllable of his voice as he talks so passionately about things Grantaire can never believe in. Sometimes he likes to pretend that his light could be infectious, that he himself could become somehow greater, more human, just by being in his presence.

But he's disgusting. Useless. And he just made out with his best friend right in front of the man of his dreams.

He loves him so much it's killing him.

He can't deal with this alone. Seized by a sudden sense of hopeless, despairing panic, he yanks up the duvet and reaches behind him for something, anything that he has stashed down there. The liquid is a clear colour but he doesn't bother to check the label. He grips the bedframe with white-knuckled hands, trying to control his breathing for long enough to lift the bottle to his lips and drink.

It burns his throat all the way down. He prefers it like that.

* * *

Enjolras slams his book noisily down onto the table and runs his fingers through his hair, ignoring the scandalised glare of the librarian. He has a quiz coming up next week to study for and he can't concentrate. He's really starting to regret ignoring this entire course module in favour of planning gay marriage protests over the last few months. _Damn it!_ He'll fail, he knows he will, he's going to fail and disappoint everyone and get kicked out and spend the rest of his life as a penniless couch-surfing washout and it's _all Grantaire's fault!_

He takes a deep breath and stares at the text, running his eyes over the tiny black letters again and again, trying to absorb some kind of meaning from them. Grantaire. He wasn't too harsh, was he? No. Sometimes his roommate needs someone to be harsh with him in order for the words to get through the haze of alcohol and nihilism he deliberately places between himself and reality. He refuses to believe that he went too far. Grantaire was _kissing Éponine_ , for God's sake, he was...

...Why should he have a problem with that?

Because it's their dormitory. Their _shared_ dormitory. He should have a say in what happens on that carpet.

That doesn't explain the sharp pang, almost like physical pain, he feels every time he replays the moment in his head. That doesn't explain why he gets such an angry, confused headrush whenever he thinks of the two of them together, hands all over each other, joined at the mouth like...

He refuses to follow that train of thought to its conclusion.

Enjolras sighs and closes his textbook. If he's going to have to keep living with the man then he might as well go up and apologise. His sense of pride is screaming that it shouldn't be him that does that, that it was Grantaire who was acting like an irresponsible moron, but if nothing else it'll put his mind at rest. Maybe he'll be able to study properly once the image of Grantaire's hurt expression stops haunting him from the corner of his vision.

It's started raining since he went inside, so he pulls up the hood of his jacket and holds his textbook tightly to keep the pages from getting wet. Technically his hall of residence isn't on campus, but it's only a block away and the library is right next to the entrance. Nevertheless, he's fairly damp by the time he pushes open the door to the building. The four flights of stairs to their floor is spent trying to compose an acceptable apology in his head, a task which turns out to be harder than he expected. It _was_ Grantaire's fault, after all - Enjolras may not quite have figured out what his roommate did so wrong but he was definitely the instigator - and apologies for overreacting aren't quite the same as apologies for making the mistake in the first place. But even so, Grantaire's face as he slammed the door stabs at him with guilt whenever he remembers it and he knows that whatever he says, it had better not be half-hearted.

He stops in front of their door and hesitates. Takes a deep breath. Knocks three times.

No response.

"Grantaire?"

Nothing.

"Are you angry with me? I'm sorry, okay?"

Once again, only silence comes from inside the dormitory. So he is angry. Enjolras sighs, steels himself against the oncoming storm and turns the door handle.

Grantaire is slumped against the side of his bed with his eyes closed, empty bottles strewn across the carpet. _Shit._ He should've seen this coming. He was such an idiot to expect him to deal with this situation in a mature, responsible way. Now he's going to have to try to apologise in the morning to a grouchy, hungover Grantaire who will definitely not be as forgiving as his contentedly tipsy counterpart. The sheer number of bottles are slightly alarming, he has to admit; Enjolras must've been too upset to realise how much he'd drunk with Éponine. He couldn't have gone through all this by himself. Could he?

He puts his textbook back on the shelf and kneels down in front of Grantaire. He's completely unconscious. This isn't the first time he's drunk himself into a stupor and Enjolras has had to help him into bed to sleep it off. To be honest, it's become something of a routine. He'll wake him up at nine o'clock tomorrow with water and aspirin, hold his hair out of the toilet while he vomits then kick him out of the room in time for his morning lecture. Though judging by his state now, he'll probably spend said lecture curled up under his seat cursing the world. It's not going to be a fun day.

It's when he takes hold of him to lift him up into bed that Enjolras first notices something wrong. He's cold. Unnaturally so. The radiator isn't on and Grantaire is only wearing a t-shirt, but something about the clammy chill of his skin sets alarm bells ringing in Enjolras's head. Now he looks properly, he's paler than usual as well. The contrast between his jet black hair and white skin is unnerving. His lips look almost blue. He holds a hand over his mouth to check his breathing and almost has a heart attack.

He's dead. He isn't breathing he's dead _oh my God he's-_

He feels a tiny puff of air against his hand and almost collapses in relief. He's alive, but something is very, very wrong.

His heart beating irregular patterns somewhere in his throat, Enjolras forces his hands to stop shaking long enough to pull his phone out of his pocket and dial emergency services.


	2. Chapter 2

"Monsieur Grantaire? Monsieur Grantaire, can you hear me?"

The voice is businesslike but not unfriendly. In any other situation he would fire off some witty retort, but the world is far too difficult to comprehend as it is at the moment. He opens his eyes and regrets it instantly; the light is a brilliant, blinding white that sends pain shooting through his head. He latches onto the question still floating around his mind, grateful for the simple way forward it provides. Slowly, he rediscovers the use of his mouth and manages to croak, "Yeah." His throat burns with the vibration.

"Do you know where you are, Monsieur Grantaire?"

Another question. This one requires a little more deductive work to answer. He doesn't want to risk opening his eyes again, but his nerve endings are slowly beginning to report for duty and he can feel linen sheets underneath him. That, the professional voice and the white light all come clumsily together in his mind like a child's jigsaw puzzle. "Um... hospital?"

"That's right. You were found with a lot of alcohol in your system, Monsieur Grantaire, do you remember drinking yesterday afternoon?"

Yesterday afternoon? Shit. "What... what time is it?"

"It's half past six in the morning. Do you remember drinking yesterday afternoon, Monsieur Grantaire?"

A stab of annoyance registers through the fog of his mind. "Stop calling me that."

The voice hesitates. "That's the name your roommate gave us. Would you prefer something else?"

"Just... just call me R." Maybe that'll make this whole situation a bit easier to deal with. Or maybe it won't. Either way, he can feel the weight of it all hanging over his head, waiting to fall and crush him with consequences, and he's vaguely aware that he'll need some sense of normalcy to cling to when that happens.

"My roommate?"

"He found you unresponsive on your dormitory floor and called emergency services. He rode here with you in the ambulance."

Grantaire bites back a groan. He's started to regain enough of his mental functions to realise that showing any kind of serious emotional reaction is going to invite all sorts of awkward psychoanalysis. Even so, he is not looking forward to seeing the look on Enjolras's face when he gets back to the university.

The doctor seems to have abandoned his original question. "Can you open your eyes, R?"

"I can."

"Could you do that for me now?"

"No."

"You can take your time, R. The painkillers in your IV should start to take effect soon."

So they've been sticking needles in him. Fantastic. It's six thirty and this day already couldn't get any better. "Why does my throat hurt so much?"

"We had to insert a tube through your oesophagus in order to pump your stomach after you arrived in the ER," explains the doctor, as though he's casually discussing how overcast the weather's been lately. "You were suffering from acute alcohol poisoning. If your roommate hadn't found you when he did you might not have survived. Can you open your eyes for me now, R?"

He just isn't going to give up, is he? Might as well get it over and done with if only to shut him up. Grantaire balls his fists in the sheets, steeling himself, then cracks open his eyelids. The light slices into his brain like cheese wire. He screws up his face and only just manages to fight back another groan.

"Well done," says the doctor. Grantaire squints at him, trying to will his eyes back into focus. He's surprisingly young, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, and reminds him of an older, calmer version of Joly. The image is oddly comforting.

"As I said, the painkillers shouldn't take long to kick in. We have you on a saline drip for rehydration to help minimise the after-effects. Can you follow my finger, R?"

The doctor holds his finger in front of Grantaire's face and moves it slowly from side to side. He does his best to play along as his vision is tested, then the nerve endings in each of his limbs and his reflexes. The doctor seems satisfied as he sits back and makes a note on his clipboard. "Everything seems to be working properly. Your roommate will be thrilled."

Another stab of shame and panic. "Are you going to call him?"

"No, he's asleep in the waiting room. He's been here for most of the night. There were some of your other friends here as well but I think they went home a few hours ago. They wanted to stay in the ward with you but hospital visiting hours ended while you were still unconscious and they aren't family. You're roommate's still here, though. I'll go and fetch him now."

He disappears without waiting for a reply, and Grantaire is still too groggy to chase him down the ward begging not to be exposed to Enjolras without a few weeks' recovery time and a bulletproof vest at the very least. He stares up at the machinery above him and bites down on his lip until it hurts. This is ridiculous. He's made such a _mess_ of things. So he had an argument. So he had it confirmed to him how useless and disgusting he is. Well, this is just proof, isn't it? Normal people don't drink themselves into hospital over arguments. He is not going to cry. He's pathetic enough as it is lying here like an invalid with needles in his arm and weird sticky things all over his chest. He peels one of them off and flicks it across the room. This is all such bullshit. He could really, _really_ use a drink.

"Grantaire?"

His heart skips a beat. The doctor that looks kind of like Joly is back (though now his vision is clearing, the only real similarity seems to be his hair colour and something about the shape of his jaw) and Enjolras is with him. He looks like death. As though his marble has been chipped, tarnished and left out in the rain for a few days. He has bags under his eyes worse than the ones he gets when he stays up two nights in a row studying for exams he put off in favour of rallies and protests, his clothes are crumpled and his curly hair is hanging limp and flat, and yet somehow he still manages to be stupidly hot.

Not fair. He's just got used to looking at the ceiling light and now they throw this at him.

"Grantaire, are you okay?" Enjolras is at his bedside now. There's something frightened about his voice. Grantaire wants to tell him that no, he's not allowed to be frightened, he's supposed to be furious. Frightened is so much worse.

"I'm sorry. If this is about yesterday afternoon, I didn't mean any of it. I overreacted and what I said was unforgivable. I've been kicking myself all night. I thought... I'm so sorry, R."

It's nice of him to say that. Grantaire makes a noncommittal grunting noise and stares at the ceiling.

"There don't seem to be any complications with his recovery," says the doctor, consulting his clipboard again. "I just have a few more questions to ask, then you're free to go as soon as you feel ready."

'Ready' is a big word, but he certainly doesn't want to spend any more time in this hospital than he has to. "Shoot."

"Would you say that drinking to excess is a regular thing for you?"

Oh. _These_ types of questions.

"No."

Enjolras stares at him.

"So this is the first time you've ever needed to seek medical help for an alcohol-related condition?"

"First time, yeah."

The doctor nods and writes something down.

"Do you remember why you were drinking yesterday?"

That's a tricky one. He was found alone in his dormitory so he can't just shrug and say something about college parties. _Think, R. What's an acceptable reason to give yourself alcohol poisoning?_ This would all be so much easier if his head didn't feel like someone's trying to pull it apart piece by piece.

Enjolras answers before he can think of anything to say. "We had a fight."

"I see. Do you often use alcohol as a means of dealing with your problems?"

"Look, if you're trying to flag me as some sort of substance-abusing basket case who needs to be evaluated for rehabilitation or whatever then don't bother. I really appreciate you saving my life and all but I think I just want to go home now."

The doctor looks as though he might say something else, then sighs and inclines his head. "Of course. You're free to go. But please don't hesitate to come back if you experience any further complications, and I've given your roommate a number of pamphlets that I strongly suggest you read. Other than that, I see no reason why your recovery shouldn't go just as smoothly at home."

There are some last minute checks, some paperwork to sign, and he screws his eyes shut as a nurse removes the needle from his arm. Then he's standing up again and walking unsteadily out of the ER with Enjolras beside him looking thoroughly beaten and frankly more likely to collapse than Grantaire is. Enjolras hails a taxi and gives the driver the residence hall's address.

They sit in silence all the way there.

* * *

Enjolras was not wrong when he predicted that today would not be a good day.

Grantaire is pretending to be fine, but he can tell from his expression and the shakiness of his movements that he's still extremely hungover and probably more than a little bit nauseous. He throws his hospital bracelet into the first bin they pass and picks stickers off his chest and arms all the way up the stairs to their floor. Enjolras unlocks the door with one hand and checks his phone with the other. The latest in a constant stream of text messages from every one of the Amis (excepting Bahorel, who has apparently managed to break his second phone this month and keeps stealing Feuilly's to ask after Grantaire) flashes up on the screen.

_How is he? Has he woken up? -'Ferre_

_He's fine. We just got back. Don't let anyone come over yet. -E_

Grantaire collapses onto his bed as though he spent last night running a marathon, leans back into his pillows and says the first words either of them has spoken since leaving the ER. "I hate hospitals."

"Me too," says Enjolras. Something suspiciously like nerves are beginning to twinge. But that's ridiculous. He's never nervous. Even so, he makes sure Grantaire's eyes are closed before quietly locking the door behind him and dropping the keys into his pocket. "Why did you tell them you don't usually drink?"

"Because you know what those people are like. They're just dying to diagnose you with something. You can't give them anything to latch onto or they'll never let you leave. Speaking of drink, I am way too sober for all this." He clambers off the bed, kneels down and reaches under the duvet.

Enjolras holds his breath.

There's a long pause.

"Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "I don't make jokes."

Grantaire straightens up slowly and turns around, and the look on his face is actually frightening. "Then what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"You put yourself in _hospital_. Do you realise how terrifying it was to find you like that? I thought you were dead. I thought I'd killed you. You can't go on like this."

"Why is it suddenly your decision how I live my life?" he demands. "First Éponine, now this! Just when I thought you couldn't be any more of a control freak-"

"Look, I apologised for the whole Éponine thing, didn't I? I shouldn't have attacked you like that. But this is different. I don't care what you tell the doctors, I've been living with you for a year and a half and I can count the number of times I've seen you completely sober on ten fingers. Look at this."

He pulls a folded hospital pamphlet out of his pocket and opens it, ignoring the way Grantaire rolls his eyes and makes a disgusted noise. "Signs and Symptoms of Alcoholism."

"Oh my God, what is this supposed to be? An intervention?" He crosses the room and yanks open his chest of drawers, rummaging through the clothes stored messily inside.

"Compulsive over-reliance on alcoholic beverages. You have literally been home five minutes and you're already looking for a drink. You won't find anything in there, by the way. I was thorough."

Grantaire slams the drawers closed in irritation.

"Persistence of use over an extended period of time. You've been drinking for as long as I've known you and probably for a long time before we even met. Try to tell me I'm wrong."

But he's already too busy snatching bottles of water and Gatorade off the bookshelf, sniffing their contents and hurling them onto the floor. Enjolras found during his sweep of the dormitory last night that the water was in fact nothing of the sort, and the fact that Grantaire took them to his lectures made him want to smash his head against the wall on his roommate's behalf. The Gatorade seemed innocent enough but he wasn't taking any chances, and the way Grantaire is checking each of them now makes him glad he decided not to trust him an inch as far as liquids were concerned.

"Neglect of other activities due to alcohol use or after-effects of alcohol use. How many times have you missed lectures this term because you've been hungover?" He looks up from the pamphlet to see Grantaire heading for the bathroom and sighs. "Don't bother. I tipped the whisky in the cabinet down the sink along with everything else. Use of alcohol to-"

"Stop reading the fucking pamphlet!" he shouts, slamming the bathroom door shut.

"But you do realise this all applies to you? I can't sit back and let you keep killing yourself!"

"I'm not one of your causes, Apollo! I'm not your charity case! Why do you care so much? You don't even like me!"

Enjolras blinks. "What are you talking about?"

"You think I'm worthless and disgusting. Why not just let me die, then you won't have to deal with me any more!"

"I already apologised for what I said. I'm sorry, okay? What more do you want?"

"Just because you apologised doesn't make it not true."

"Now you're being ridiculous," he says. "You're not worthless or disgusting, you just have a problem."

"Whatever." Grantaire storms across the room and grabs the door handle. It doesn't budge. "Can you unlock the door, please?" he asks through gritted teeth.

Enjolras shakes his head. "You aren't leaving here until you're sober."

"I _am_ sober!" He spins back around to face him, arms held out wide. "They pumped all the alcohol out of me hours ago, or were you too busy tipping my property down the sink to notice?"

"If I let you out of here you'll be at the Corinth in ten minutes, don't even try to pretend you won't be. You're staying right here."

Grantaire holds his hand out. "Give me the key, Enjolras."

"No. This is for your own good."

Something about the expression on his face makes him suddenly very aware that Grantaire is taller tham him and almost definitely stronger, and he's not certain he could take him in a fight. "This isn't funny. Give me the fucking key."

"No."

For a moment, Enjolras honestly believes that Grantaire is going to wrestle him to the floor and pry the key out of his cold dead hands. But then something seems to drain out of him and he collapses backwards against the door, sliding down to rest curled into a ball with his forehead on his knees. "You don't understand," he says quietly. "You just don't get it, do you?"

Enjolras is sitting next to him before he even realises what he's doing. He hesitates, unsure what to do. He tries to put his arm around Grantaire's shoulders but it's shrugged off within moments, so he pats him awkwardly on the back and asks, "What don't I get?"

"You think I do this because I _want_ to. You think I _like_ being a worthless trainwreck with no future. I don't. I hate it. I hate that I make you hate me. But I don't have a choice! I'm not... I'm not strong enough to be different. I can't do it."

Enjolras takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. "I don't hate you. Sometimes you annoy me, but I've never hated you. Maybe I'm too harsh with you sometimes. But you aren't a trainwreck, you aren't worthless and you do have a future, you just have to sort through some of your issues. Like the alcohol. We'll do it right here and now and I'll be with you the whole time. It'll be like pulling off a plaster."

Grantaire shakes his head. "I'm not strong enough."

"Stop saying that. You _are_ strong enough. We'll deal with your self-esteem afterwards."

There's a pause, then he lifts his eyes up from his knees and looks at Enjolras through a tangle of forlorn black curls. "...You'll be here?"

He nods. "I'll be here. You don't have to do this alone."

His shoulders slump and he rests his head back against the door, and the sigh he breathes sounds something like consent. "I can't believe you've talked me into this."

Something loosens in Enjolras's chest and he feels tension leaking out of his limbs. He hadn't even realised how upset he was. "I'll tell your teachers you're still in hospital." He puts his arm around Grantaire and this time it isn't shrugged away. "It'll all be fine. I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Éponine's side of the story. This chapter isn't as long as the others, sorry. I'll try to make it up to you with the next one.

Éponine stares down at the pavement, letting the thick sheet of dark hair in front of her face hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. She tries valiantly to stop her shoulders from shaking and to hold back her wet sobs but only partially succeeds. Nevertheless, no-one seems to pay any attention to the distraught young woman crying on the damp asphalt. Passersby are infrequent in the narrow road behind the Corinth and those that do appear aren't quite the thoughtful, compassionate type. It's starting to drizzle and the hood of her jacket isn't even waterproof but Éponine can't find the motivation to move. She half hopes that the water will dissolve her into nothing but a puddle and send her trickling down into the gutter where she belongs to save her the time and trauma of making that inevitable descent herself.

She should've called in sick. Her boss might've forgiven her if she rang and claimed she was bedridden with some awful contagious disease. But she desperately needs the wages from a five-hour shift at the Corinth and so she did the honest thing and turned up anyway, hoping against hope that he wouldn't mind her being thirty minutes late. But hope never works out well for Éponine. She hoped her boss would understand. She hoped that she could sit in the hospital waiting room until three o'clock in the morning, tired and guilt-ridden and still more than a little drunk, and wake up in time for work the next morning without a crippling hangover. She hoped she'd be able to use this job to pay her board and cafeteria fees for this semester. The rate things are going, she might as well just stop trying.

What can she even do now? It's hardly as though she'll miss working as a bar girl but that was her only source of income. Her academic scholarship pays for her education but very little else and she deliberately burned every bridge between herself and her parents when she left hope. Even if they would agree to send her money at all, she'll sleep on the street and eat out of rubbish bins before she asks them for help. She'll just have to try to find another job as quickly as possible. But who's going to hire her? The economy is bad enough as it is and no-one's rushing to hire penniless, inexperienced university students with no real skills and lectures at odd hours to work around. She could stay unemployed for months.

Éponine hugs her knees and lets out another sob. People will notice if she gets kicked out of the hall of residence. Marius will notice. She'll have to explain that not only is she a scholarship student but a poverty-stricken one as well, then he'll ask why she doesn't go to her parents and she'll have to tell him what sort of background she really comes from. And then he'll offer to help her, damn him, he's too kind to let his friend deal with this alone. The thought of his concerned eyes, his arms around her, only makes her cry harder.

"Oi 'Ponine, that you?"

The voice makes her jump and she moves instinctively to scramble backwards off the curb, but she catches herself just in time. She pushes her hair back from her face and looks up to see him striding jauntily down the road towards her.

Montparnasse hasn't changed in the six months they've been apart. He's still pretty, fine-featured with snappy dress sense, and he still gives off that faintly unsavoury air that makes you wonder if, despite his attractiveness, he isn't exactly the kind of person your mother warned you away from when you were little. "Ah, thought it was. What you crying for?"

A sick feeling is settling in her stomach. "What are you doing here?"

He grins at her, completely at his ease, as though totally unaware that he _shouldn't be here_. He should be back in Saint-Michel with her parents and all the other people she came here to get away from. Yet here he is, standing right in front of her, a casual reminder that her two worlds aren't quite as separate as she would like them to be and her past can and will ooze insidiously into her future no matter how far she runs from it. "I get around," he says. "Businesses grow, sweetheart. People move up in the world. You're six months behind the times."

"Did you come here looking for me?" she demands.

"Don't flatter yourself, I'm here for my own reasons. But I won't say I wasn't hoping I'd run into you." He sits down next to her on the curb and moves to brush the rest of her hair from her face with gentle fingers. Éponine swats them away. "You still haven't told me what's with the tears."

"I lost my job, okay?" she snaps. "One of my friends had to go to hospital last night so I overslept, came in late and got fired. Now I have board and cafeteria bills to pay and no money to pay them with. The administration seems to forget that if it's going to give out scholarships then not everyone here's going to be filthy rich."

Montparnasse shrugs and pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. "Get another job, then. Smoke?" She shakes her head. "Suit yourself," he says and lights up, cupping the tip with his free hand to protect it from the rain.

"It's not that simple. There aren't that many jobs left these days."

"Bullshit. There are plenty of jobs. You're just looking in the wrong places." He pauses, smoke trickling out of the corners of his mouth, then smiles. "I might have a job for you."

"No," she says. "Not interested. I left Saint-Michel for a reason, 'Parnasse."

"I haven't even told you what it is yet."

"I don't care what it is. I'm not getting caught back up in all that."

He shrugs again. "Fine. But there is money involved, you know. A fair bit. I could pay you by next week."

Éponine stares at the raindrops forming puddles on the road and angrily blinks back more tears. How dare Montparnasse just saunter casually back into her life like this after she tried so hard to erase him? And yet here he is, sitting beside her like he has any right to be there, and she _hates_ him. She hates him for assuming she'd still be interested in lowering herself to helping with whatever illegal activities he's working on now, and she hates him even more for being right.

"It'll be a breeze," he continues, sensing her hesitation. "You'll barely have to do anything. It's nowhere near the sort of jobs you used to help me out with." He pauses and stares at the buildings on the other side of the street, idly tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette. "Besides. I miss working with you, 'Ponine."

The reference to her past steels her resolve. "I said no."

"Which you and I both know means yes, so I'll meet you back here this time tomorrow. That suit you? Don't be late, I have places to be." He pushes himself to his feet and strolls back off down the road as though the sun is high in the sky and he hasn't a care in the world, calling a final, "Your parents say hello!" over his shoulder before turning the corner and disappearing from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an unfortunate little fondness for Montparnasse...


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh my God." Joly collapses back against the bed, burying his face in his hands. "Oh my _God_. Do you even understand what you're doing?"

It's six hours after their return from hospital. Four hours since Grantaire's hands started shaking uncontrollably. Two hours since he broke out in a cold sweat and curled into a ball in his duvet, swearing and moaning and _begging_. Thirty minutes since Enjolras realised that kneeling next to him and trying to come up with encouraging speeches was probably not going to cut it. This situation is starting to look genuinely dangerous. He called Joly, but now the other student looks as though he might need just as much emotional support as Grantaire.

"He agreed to this!" says Enjolras, as though that negates everything. "It'll be the best thing for him in the long run, you know it will be."

"If there _is_ a long run!" Joly looks up at him, eyes wide through gaps in his fingers. "You do realise this could kill him?"

Enjolras stares, momentarily speechless. "Kill him? It's just alcohol."

Joly shakes his head. "No. You don't understand. His body has developed a chemical dependence on that substance. It doesn't just go back to normal when you take it away! Alcohol withdrawal is worse than heroin withdrawal! This could be really dangerous! Pretty much all specialist doctors and professional rehabilitation programmes agree that quitting cold turkey like this is an incredibly stupid thing to do. These next few days are going to be a living hell for him." He counts symptoms off on his fingers. "Sweating, shaking, vomiting, insomnia, night terrors, _seizures_... You haven't thought this through at all, have you?"

"Okay, okay!" Listening to him talk is making Enjolras's insides squirm with fear and guilt. "I understand! This was a stupid idea. Maybe we should just take him back to hospital."

"No!" croaks Grantaire. "No. I'm not going back there."

"But you could die!" Joly pleads.

"I'm not gonna die."

"R." Enjolras kneels next to him, speaking softly. "Did you hear what Joly said? Doing this here is going to be awful for you. The doctors could help you. They have proper rehabilitation programmes. It'll be less painful, and less dangerous. You don't have to do this alone."

As he watches, the corners of Grantaire's mouth turn themselves up into a weak smile. "I'm not alone. I've got you, haven't I? And our own private doctor here."

"Doctor?" wails Joly. "I'm only in pre-med! We haven't even reached the part of the curriculum that mentions dependency and withdrawal yet!"

"Then how do you know so much about the symptoms?" asks Enjolras.

"I got drunk two nights in a row once, I thought I'd read up on alcoholism just in case. But all I got was a headache. You've been drinking for _years_ , R! This is going to be so much worse than that!"

"Then I place my life in your hands, young pre-med student."

"No! Don't do that! Go to hospital!"

Enjolras sighs deeply and runs his fingers through his hair, thinking. "We can't force him to go if he doesn't want to," he says eventually. "Distressing him is only going to make it harder. But Grantaire, if it starts getting dangerous then we _are_ going to call a doctor, okay?"

Grantaire nods, then winces and curls into a ball as he's overcome by another round of convulsive shaking. Enjolras takes his hand and squeezes it tight. It's damp and cold. "What do we do?"

Joly whimpers. "I don't know, we haven't got this far yet!"

"I thought you said you looked it up!"

"Months ago! I... I'll go and fetch my textbooks! Just keep him warm and make sure he gets water straight away if he asks for it. His system's going to be trying to flush itself clean. And don't leave him on his own!" Joly scampers from the room, letting light from the corridor slant through the dormitory's half-darkness before shutting the door behind him.

* * *

 

Enjolras spends the rest of the day sat by Grantaire's bed with Joly's medical textbooks open on the ground in front of him. They're not much help as far as treatment goes, but he can still look up new symptoms whenever they manifest themselves and reassure himself that his roommate isn't currently in the process of dying. They also tell him that the next twelve hours are going to be hell on Earth, which is nice to know. He has a bowl ready and waiting by the pillow.

"Nothing," whispers Grantaire, his face still buried in the duvet. "We are nothing. Tiny specks of beings on a tiny speck of a planet in a universe so big we barely even exist. We will die and disappear and no-one will remember us and the sun will die and burn the Earth away and we'll be no more than atoms floating through nothing for eternity. _Liberté_ and _egalité_ and _fraternité_ and democracy and justice and everything you fight for are just chemical sensations in our brains and when we die there will be nothing, no darkness because there can be no light, no silence because there can be no noise, and nothing will ever matter because everything comes to nothing in the end and-"

"Grantaire!" He takes him by the shoulder and shakes him until his rambling fades away and he curls into a ball, clutching the duvet even tighter and trembling all over. Enjolras's own heart is beating hard against his ribs. It's not unusual for his roommate to wax poetic about existential topics like this, but only when he's at a certain stage of drunkenness - and right now he's the least drunk he has been in years - and never about anything quite this alarmingly nihilist. Cynicism is of course to be expected from him, but something fundamental to Enjolras's very existence is recoiling in horror at the words coming out of his mouth. "Do you really believe that?"

"Nothing," he whispers again.

"We are _not_ nothing," Enjolras contradicts him. "We are right here and right now and we don't need forever. Our ideals will outlive us and the changes we make to the universe may be tiny but they would never have happened if it wasn't for our existences. They are so much more than just chemicals in our brains. They're universal truths and they will exist even when the sun dies. They will outlast the universe, I promise you that."

Slowly, shakily, Grantaire's face emerges from the duvet. He stares up at Enjolras with enraptured intensity, his eyes bright with delirium and wide as though finding for the first time that he can stare at the sun without squinting and see beautiful things hiding behind the light.

"Apollo," he says quietly. "How are you not blinding me? I'm your Mercury; I orbit you. You are my sun, I can never escape you, nor do I want to, though you could burn me alive whenever it pleased you. I'm your Icarus; you destroy my wings, if I ever did have wings before I met you, but you burn so beautifully... There is nothing. Only you."

"Shh," says Enjolras, because he can find no other words. "Listen to yourself. You need to rest."

"If I closed my eyes I'd still see you, my Apollo. If all light died I'd still see you. _Liberté_ and _egalité_ and _fraternité_ are nothing. You are the only universal truth. If I exist only to be burned alive by you then I shall consider it a privilege. It's a worthier death than I deserve to die here with you, watching you, loving you, to exist forever in your-"

"You're not going to die!" he insists. "You're delirious." There's no other explanation for it. Grantaire can't really believe all the things coming out of his mouth. Oh God, can he? "I'll... I'll call Joly."

He leaves him still mumbling into the pillow, pulls his phone out of his pocket and finds Joly's number with shaking fingers. The other student picks up after two rings. "What's happening? Is he okay? I'm at the library, I can be there in five minutes. I knew we should've just taken him back to hospital, this is all my-"

"Joly," he interrupts. "It's fine. Is it normal for him to go all delirious? He just had some sort of waking nightmare about... I don't know, something nihilist, then he started saying I was a god." _There is nothing. Only you._

Joly sounds almost relieved. "Oh, that's perfectly normal. Has he started hallucinating yet?"

"What? No!"

"Because that's a thing that might happen. Will probably happen, now we're at this stage. Did he have any night terrors last night?"

"No, he didn't sleep." _You are the only universal truth._

"I thought he might not. Wait, did you?"

"Of course I didn't. I need to be awake to make sure nothing bad happens to him."

"Enjolras! Your body needs sleep to stay healthy! And don't you have lectures to go to?"

"Yeah, I have a quiz tomorrow. But it's okay, it doesn't count towards my final grade, I can stay here and-" _Watching you._

"No you can't," says Joly. "This could last for up to a week. You can't stay awake that long and you shouldn't be missing class. There's no reason why you should have to do all this alone anyway. I'd come myself but I have a lecture in fifteen minutes so I wouldn't be much help. I'll call the others and see if anyone can take over while you get some sleep and take your quiz."

Enjolras bites his lip. "Are you sure?" _Loving you._

"I'll brief them on what they have to do. Just wait there."

A sudden wave of appreciation so strong it's almost dizzying washes over him. He imagines Joly sitting in the library on campus already going through their friends' schedules in his mind and wonders if it would be considered weird to buy him flowers, or maybe a muffin basket. "I owe you one."

"Don't worry about it."

"Oh, and do you have anything we could give him to stop him shaking so much? Some sort of sedative?"

There's a cry of exasperation from the other end of the line. "No! I'm a pre-med student! What do you want me to do, write you a prescription? They don't let me hand out drugs!"

"Okay, calm down, I'm sorry. I'll just wait here, then."

It's Courfeyrac who knocks on the door in ten minutes' time. Enjolras lets him in and he hurries straight across the room to bend over Grantaire, who has stopped mumbling and seems slightly more lucid. Lucidity, however, has only brought irritation and aggression and Enjolras is beginning to wonder if he didn't prefer him delirious. 

"Courf," croaks Grantaire.

Courfeyrac nods. "Yep. Joly called me. I'm on seizure watch while you get some sleep. I'm free until eight o'clock and Éponine's going to take over after that, I think."

Enjolras winces. "Can we not call it 'seizure watch'?"

"I've been given a full rundown of my duties," he continues. "Give him plenty of water, keep him comfortable, look up any new symptoms in the textbooks by the bed... oh, there they are, call an ambulance if anything starts going wrong, absolutely do not give him alcohol under any circumstances no matter what he offers me in return. Okay?"

"You're talking about me like I'm not fucking here," Grantaire snarls, his voice muffled by the pillow he now has pressed into his face.

"Not at all, mate," says Courfeyrac, sitting himself down on the edge of the bed. "Is there anything I can get you? Aside from the obvious, of course." The lump of blankets and curly hair doesn't move. He looks around, finds the recently refilled glass on the bedside table and holds it out hopefully. "Water?"

Grantaire snatches it out of his hand and hurls it across the room. It hits the opposite wall and smashes, spraying broken glass all over Enjolras's bed.

Courfeyrac waves a hand towards the door. "You go and get some rest. We'll be fine here. You can crash in my room if you like. Just make sure you duck as you go in or you'll take out Jehan's fairy lights and he'll shave your eyebrows off while you sleep."

Enjolras hesitates. "You sure you'll be okay?"

"'Course we will. Won't we, R?"

"Fuck off."

"He means goodnight."

With more than one final look back, Enjolras hands the key to Courfeyrac and forces himself out into the corridor.


End file.
